


Fixing

by Gemenied



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He switches the light off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> A/N: Experimental fic, inspired by some of my favourite short stories. Hope you enjoy. Many thanks to ShadowSamurai for the beta.

**Fixing**

He switches the light off, his hand already on the door handle, covered by his coat. A last appraising look sweeps the office. It's tidy and clean. The desktop, devoid of any hint of work, is spotless. The chairs, the cabinets, all empty and ordered with military precision. He notices with satisfaction, wouldn't want to leave anything behind.

He steps outside, leaves the door open. The rustling of his clothes is the only sound against the quiet hum of ventilation. He's alone. There's no light in the outer offices, so he has to find his way blindly. The metaphor is not lost on him: a blind many stumbling through darkness.

Outside his car is waiting, no longer the heavy duty saloon of German fabricate, but his own quirky classic roadster. Out of time, out of touch. He craves the seclusion, the familiarity of the saloon, but it has been returned to the car pool. He looks forward to the excitement of getting reacquainted with his roadster, it's been a long time since he used it. The brakes need fixing, he thinks. One second too late on wet and slippery roads and that will be it. Too late.

He slowly makes his way towards the hallway leading upstairs, as usual offended by the greenish-yellow colour of the lighting. It stings in his eyes, even more so after midnight.

The brakes need fixing, he remembers again in passing. The mundane he will have to focus on in the future - mow the lawn, fix up the house, buy food, fix the brakes. Saturday's football for excitement. Maybe he'll get himself a dog.

He takes the few stairs up to the next level slowly. It takes effort to push his body up every time, while his hamstrings protest silently against the exertion. He thinks that this is a sign of being an old man and thus ignores the twinge. In the corridor, his steps resound. The sound magnifies against the naked concrete of the walls.

He takes a deep breath, then another and closes his eyes for a brief moment. They burn in exhaustion.

Tomorrow he'll sleep in. 10. 11. Noon. At least. It won't matter. He's got the time. Then he could call the garage to get the brakes fixed. Maybe.

The elevator takes him up from the basement to the entrance hall. The front desk is occupied by some lad barely in his twenties. The young man looks up only briefly, then returns to what has him focussed on his computer screen. He doesn't look closely at the middle aged man in the pearl grey suit with a coat over his wrist. The older man doesn't look at him either.

He thinks of what he will say on the phone to the garage the next day. Or the day after. When he calls. He won't unavoidably need the car for a few days. He won't have to leave the house at all. There's time.

The car park is mostly empty, so the roadster can't be missed. Nobody takes notice at this time of the night that the man slows his steps. He gently runs his hand over the lines of the car, almost reverently, then opens the door. It happens quietly, just as gently as he places his coat on the passenger seat. He straightens to his full height and looks back at the building behind him. He's leaving it behind with a clean and empty desk, in an abandoned office.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes again. They still burn, but now his throat does as well. He breathes again, in and out slowly, would do so longer, if his phone did not blip with a message.

He pulls out the device, reads the message, then puts it away again.

Squeezing his large frame into the roadster takes some effort. He can't find the right position, doesn't feel comfortable. Pulling out the phone he reads the message again. His fingers hover over the reply-function, but he releases his grip and returns it to the inside pocket of his coat.

He starts the car, revs it up a few times to enjoy the sound of the engine. It breaks the nightly silence, but he doesn't care. He pulls out the safety belt, then lets it slide back into its holster, remembering once again that the brakes needs fixing. He'll have to call the garage soon.

The wipers on the wind-screen clear away the droplets of rain as Boyd releases the hand brake and slowly rolls out of the car park.


End file.
